


All That He Has

by Captain_Panda



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Eventual Romance, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Poetry, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29161497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: They call him a ‘grandfather,’ in a fond sort of tone,Don’t they know how hard it is to raise a nation alone?Steve Rogers' character study, featuring notes of "I want to go home" and "This Tony Stark fella ain't half bad, at least."
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	All That He Has

A safe box under his bed and a fake lock on his door,

Twelve dollars and six cents and not one penny more.

Three square meals a day and the clothes on his back,

Seventy years of backpay and a new uniform on the rack.

Microphones, loud, and right in his face.

“I came from this land.” _I’m not from outer space_.

Twenty-six-years of worth-mentioning life.

A pack of gum, a few cigs, and a Swiss Army knife.

Seven decades remaining of insider jokes:

“How can a wheel survive with no spokes?”

About half his vaccines, but he doesn’t bite.

They nuked him in a box, so he’d come out all right.

Come, watch his new strength put the strongman to shame!

(He’s a private promoted early to a strawman’s first name.)

A quarter-of-a-century, and Steve Rogers enlisted.

“Hardly a day over a hundred!” smarmy papers insisted.

Multilingual, but reserved, like he didn’t like to talk.

He possessed—how do you say? A certain _je ne sais quoi_.

He had no preferences, no requests, not one color choice;

_If he had a single human desire, he never once gave it voice._

He was probably sad but somehow well-adapted;

“He seemed pretty benign—if a little distracted.”

His shield was worth a hundred million in cash,

But his soaked arctic clothes were consigned to the trash.

Funny—how some things were worth more than others.

His father’s life was untraced; but those kept letters? Were _his_ _mother’s_.

People asked for his name, but autographs felt contrived.

(If he’d signed those damn cards, would Phil Coulson still be alive?)

They gave him fake-paddles to teach him how to fake-row;

Newsflash: the Earth was not flat seventy years ago.

He’s got miles of intel that’s just overturned rock.

By any other name, it still feels like “shell shock.”

_There are eyes in his window and ears in his wall;_

_He knows that they’re waiting for his mask to fall._

He tires early in tests to score within the “theoretical guide.”

His body’s a weapon; his blueprint is classified.

They call him the “embodiment of the American way.”

He’d like it more if they’d just give him the real time of day.

He has everything he needs and nothing he wants.

The empty table weeps; the ticking clock taunts.

Two tidy pairs of shoes, lined up, red and brown.

(Do you know what it’s like to _almost_ drown?)

His lucky pocket penny was just another casualty of war.

It doesn’t really matter; he’s _not_ keeping score.

Not of little white crosses in big green yards;

Nor of unreceived letters: he writes _them_ cards.

_Dear Falsy, I miss you, and your eternal ‘chin up:’_

_You said we’d all make it, or you said we’d be fucked._

_Dear Falsy, I have some news, your firstborn has passed,_

_I’m so sorry for your loss; good things just don’t last._

_Dear Falsy, say hi to Gabe, Mori, and Jacques,_

_Whatever courage you are need, not one of you lacks,_

_Dear Falsy, I’m afraid this will be my last for some time,_

_This mission has no escape plan; there is no perfect crime._

Nightmares and nightmares and nightmares plague him,

Sleep for two hours a night—and the monsters can’t win.

The closest he has to peers are now three times his age,

Is he too young or too old for a world this strange?

They call him a ‘grandfather,’ in a fond sort of tone,

Don’t they know how hard it is to raise a nation alone?

The ration kits are artifacts, like stones from the Moon,

They crumble when touched; they’ll expire real soon.

His own mortality crashes over him, like waves on a shore,

How many more years of loneliness will he have to endure?

A sense of good will, and a taste for Russian tea cake:

Two things even centuries in the ice could not take.

His preferred sleeping position: like a log on one side,

With a door at his front, so intruders can’t hide.

Endangered species, noun—among the last of its kind.

He’s worse than endangered; he’ll be the last left behind.

Oh, he misses the music and the old song-and-dance,

He’d give his left arm for it back, for a _chance_.

He wants nothing they have now, no new fancy cars,

Under a veil of city light, he can’t see the old stars.

Bygones are bygones and he’ll let them rest when he’s finished,

But dammit, he’s young—his life force ain’t diminished.

He has things to say, he has _life_ yet to _live_ ,

Somewhere, somehow, it’s all got to give.

Twelve dollars and change is a small sum of money,

To spend in a land dripping gold, milk, and honey.

They tell him it’s twenty dollars and twelve cents’ admission,

Can’t make it, can’t take it—that’s a verb, “decommission.”

He was poor where he came from; now he’s lost without hope,

“‘Til the end of the line” feels like the end of a rope.

They won’t give him a gun, so he stashes one in a drawer,

It’s for a bad day, if cold water hits the floor.

He’d rather go out swingin’—like that [Punch Hitler] line.

How the hell did they find him frozen _supine_?

Stevie Rogers, the fighter, found dead lyin’ down,

He’d be embarrassed if he remembered what it was like, being found.

All he remembers is wakin’ up in that room.

And thinking, _Is this home?_ way too goddamn soon.

Cold jokes and _cold_ jokes were two separate arenas,

Frankly, he’d like to have “Capsicle” subpoenaed.

It’s not like Stark’s not funny; he is;

(Did Howard _ever_ strike him as the type to have kids?)

But Stark’s mean about funny, mean like dogs bite,

If you wanna talk to him, best to brace for a fight.

Somebody got under Stark’s collar, nearly ripped out his throat,

Steve’s felt that mistrust; he’s worn that same coat.

In life, your only two friends are your fists.

Not money, not fame—not the first girl you kissed.

It’s not payment in blood, although Steve’s shed quite a lot.

It’s how much fight’s in the dog; how many “all days” you got?

Steve’s got more on his side than most people are ready to endow.

He’s got brains, he’s got brawns, he’s no slouch, no weak brow.

The one thing he doesn’t have in his drawer is a Bible,

Did God plan this out, make His temporal disciple?

Should he evangelize people, give them a taste of his home?

Why bother? Just ask Siri; she’ll answer the phone.

They know more than he does about his own written story.

He crashed a plane into Hell; how’d he land in _Purgatory?_

They trimmed his beard; and they cut his hair,

Now he knows why Samson wept in despair.

Coats used to have buttons, what’s with all the zippers?

What’s a guy gotta do to get a good pair of clippers?

Three sets of clothes: one for work, one for “others,”

(Does he miss home? Of course.) One for grieving his brothers.

Technology makes a warning sound, like an earthquake incoming.

How’s a guy supposed to sleep with all that electric humming?

(Did people adapt or were they born aliens, immune?

Sorry—is talk of “Chitauri” too soon?)

His sanity, intact, although somehow debatable.

_Are his politics outdated or simply unstatable?_

“I do love my country; we all bonded on the Front.”

They tell him “loving the war,” on camera, sounds blunt.

Accusations come: he’s “a hard-liner, a hawk, a divisive machine.”

What’s a soldier-boy gotta do to prove his love for country was clean?

If he passed their drug tests, would they let him walk free?

Are you kidding? There’s a whole world out there—he might _see_.

The world’s not that different; a hundred turns ain’t that long.

But people don’t want to think their nostalgia is wrong.

They _knew_ who Captain America was and stated it with surety.

(Did Steve Rogers _die_ or merely pass into obscurity?)

He’s a silhouette for a guy in a spangly blue suit.

Some call it a cakewalk; he’d like to dispute.

_Purgatory_ was that big ugly in-betwain.

How can they call it “comforts of home” if nothing looks the same?

The Cola tastes wrong; the tap water’s too soft,

He’s tired of knowin’ every street corner and bein’ lost.

They ask what he needs and he gives them non-answers.

Then they ask why he won’t laugh at his own U.S.O. dancers.

He’ll tell them, the war was a gun, and the war was a baton.

Why’s that so hard to wrap heads around? The war was about _bond_.

They weren’t soldiers because “soldier” was one specific role,

But the battle was universal; every land had its toll.

They ask if he’s damaged. Like they didn’t see the fire.

“No,” he tells them, because he didn’t expire.

They need a bigger Betsy Ross—there is not enough white.

Angels get wings; soldiers get Stars-and-Stripes.

He is a walking memorial for people to pay their respects.

If he’s bitter about their mourning, at least no one suspects.

What bitter God gave them the right to actively grieve?

Why does everyone he love have a duty to _leave?_

“Make some friends” is the dictionary’s definition of “healing.”

Love is life’s answer; but love is so damn _revealing_.

(How to kill a man in three bullets: step one,

Shoot for the hand, the trigger, the gun.

If he doesn’t go down, then shoot for the leg.

Now give your enemy his moral chance to beg.

Then lock your gun and your eyes beneath his chin,

And pierce his heart with one shot; _we got a_ war _to win_.)

He never liked killin’, but nobody asks.

He can’t smile at people without one of his masks.

(Was he supposed to shoot the ones who begged for their life?

Is it a moral excuse to say he marched to someone else’s fife?)

Stark asks him one night if he forgives himself for the dead,

He answers, What kind of question is that? and shakes it loose from his head.

Stark says he looks haunted, like he’s chasing his ghosts.

How can Stark cast stones? He’s a lot guiltier than most.

From day one, Stark is just a thorn in his side,

He’s not a man you can trust, never mind can _confide_.

He knows the rules—everyone’s “Steve’s friend” for a while.

Call him names, call him over: “Hey, sweetheart, a smile?”

What’s it like to be famous? Kinda like bein’ watched.

Like your genie said, “Make you?” and then the making got _you_ botched.

He didn’t think he was that broken. He was made in Ma’s image.

Only strangers wished that he’d taken more from his patrilineage.

His Pa was a ghost, dead before he was born.

And cynics looked upon their new ghost family with scorn.

Ma was always away—worked long hours at the clinic.

She deserved more than she got, reflected his own inner cynic.

Good people got fucked, and other people got far,

How’d a guy end up free to make a damn flyin’ car?

There’s no evil unmarked by accidental good,

And no good man’s virtue has every challenge withstood.

Sometimes, he is angry, enough to withdraw.

If only, if only, they had seen what he saw.

His sketchbook is filled with bloody pages of ink,

Showcasing every reason he wished he could drink.

He doesn’t like comfortable; it isn’t deserved.

His nine-month tenure was too short; he barely even _served_.

He speaks out on behalf of a nation at large,

What joke begins, “Who put the fossil in charge?”

Condemnation is close quarters and boxed-in routines,

He doesn’t want to be imprisoned; his movie reel still has _scenes_.

Like—Stark Tower, eleven-thirty, an unusually cold night.

“Hey, Cap,” greeted Stark—like he’d expected this sight.

Stark was capricious and vain like his father,

One minute you were welcome; the next, called a bother.

Yet here Steve was, trying his luck, spinning the spokeless wheel.

At least Stark’s first real question wasn’t “How do you feel?”

It was—“What is it like, being the last of your kind?”

And Steve said, “It’s lonely,” forgetting not to speak his mind.

They talked about loneliness, and star-death, and creation.

Forbidden fruit at his fingertips—the universe’s sublimation.

“One day, we’ll all be dust,” the atheist declared.

And then there would be nothing, but Steve wasn’t scared.

He liked the idea of the end bringing all things together.

Not strangers anymore—but stellar birds of a feather.

Stark had a way of speaking that made people _unpeople_ ,

Like his God was the Universe, and the tower his steeple.

In a landless country full of uncertain ghosts,

It was nice to meet someone so free with his hosts.

It’s not so much that he converts to Tony Stark’s religion;

It’s that Tony gives him a space where _his_ space fits in.

Tony makes him feel odder than he was when he walked in,

And somehow, someway, it’s a place true rebirth can begin.

. o .

It’s been time since he first stepped through that strange portal.

And still the world’s a strange place, and he’s still a strange mortal.

He assimilates their language; he assimilates their food.

Most days, he even assimilates their form of a good mood.

It still bothers him often, that he’s not going back.

But he’s on a new train; he’s picked a new track.

The people on it are weird, make no exception.

But he’s found a good bunch, by his own discretion.

Banner is quiet, and smart, and sincere,

Barton’s the troublemaker you drag by an ear,

Thor’s the only one who can break his new ribs,

Romanoff’s the leader who swore never to have kids,

And Stark’s a man in a can, his eyes in the sky;

He’s reckless, but: “Who needs a parachute to _fly_?”

Their polarity is the root of their success as a unit:

Mathematician and magician; bow and string to tune it.

Stark is the nothing, the ether to his light,

Opposite sides of a spectrum, obsessed with the same night.

“There’s eternity out there,” Stark explains, as restless as ever,

Steve sleeps against eternity, Stark’s back like a tether.

Stark keeps too many guns for a guy who wants to be alive,

“Be prepared,” Stark informs him. “To fight is to survive.”

They have more in common than either of them likes.

“I’m sorry,” Steve acknowledges, but: “Wasn’t you,” Stark bites.

The reactor is a gift from a past Tony would rather forget,

Steve wishes he had more to hold and a lot less to regret.

People think Stark’s afraid of the next battle,

But he’s got war on his mind; he sits anxious in his saddle.

Steve can’t tell him that the next fight won’t come,

But he can sit beside him, and assure, “Last time, we won.”

. o .

The future only let him bring the clothes on his back,

The future only gave him what he resolved to attract.

A family, a purpose, a sense of belonging,

A place to mourn and regroup without simply prolonging.

It’s hard to arrive nowhere with pocket change and no map.

But Tony pulled over; and Tony asked, “You coming, Cap?”

And no, he didn’t want to, he’d rather wander the desert,

But the future was alive; the land he came from, inert.

“S’pose so,” he said, taking one last look behind him.

What were the odds Howard Stark’s son would find him?

It wasn’t a smooth journey; there were times he wanted to give up.

But damned if he didn’t find himself somehow in love.

Stark was good to him; and Tony was kind.

And maybe, in the end, Steve turned out just fine.


End file.
